(Vinyl Love is a series of posts that quite simply lists, describes, and displays the pieces in my growing vinyl collection. You can bet that each record was given a spin during the drafting of each corresponding post.)
Artist: The Clientele Album Title: Strange geometry Year released: 2005 Year reissued: 2016 Details: standard black
The skinny: More Clientele vinyl hitting my turntable this week, this one a warm and long overdue reacquaintance. “Strange geometry” was their third album, released in 2005, and would be the first of a litany new Clientele albums that would be hotly anticipated by yours truly the moment they were announced. It was only a slight letdown from the perfection of “The violet hour“, veering ever so slightly into pop territory, only very, very slightly mind you, but this didn’t keep me from eating the album up at all. Indeed, it wasn’t long before I was in love with its every detail. This particular piece has the distinction of being the first Clientele record to become part of my collection. I purchased the 2016 Merge reissue pretty much as soon as it went up for pre-order on Amazon for a very reasonable price in the $25 range.
Well, I learned something new when writing this post. Before sitting down to draft it and indeed, when putting together this list, many moons ago, I was thinking that Terry Jacks was the originator of this song and I had an idea that the flavour of this post would be highly nostalgic, given that his version was one of my father’s faves. However, as I was tracking down the videos below for this post and doing a bit of fact checking, I realized that the origins of “Seasons in the sun” were just a tad more complicated.
Originating as a French language song titled “Le moribund” (“The dying man”), it was recorded and released back in 1961 by Belgian chanteur Jacques Brel for his fifth album, “Marieke”. I was quite surprised listening to it for the first time that though the pacing and melody was similar to the version I knew, it sounded quite different, was much darker, and it wasn’t just the language either. It had a staccato rhythm, amped by strings and horns, and the voice of Jacques Brel hovering heavenly above it all, weaving the persona of a dying man addressing from his deathbed a number of acquaintances, including a good friend, a priest, and… his wife’s lover.
“Le moribund” was translated and rewritten by California poet and singer/songwriter Rod McKuen in 1963* and he gave his version the title with which I was more familiar. And though his version was substantially different in terms of the title and word choices, it was still quite similar thematically.
Canadian singer/songwriter Terry Jacks then took McKuen’s words and used them as a springboard in the early 70s, taking the narrative even further away from the original, rewriting nearly half the words, and entirely removing the element of the cheating wife, leaving the impression of a life unfinished, no closure, just unhappiness at the passing. His version of the song was originally intended for The Beach Boys** but he ended up recording his own rendition in 1974 and it became a world wide sensation.
Despite the heartbreak of the content, his “Seasons in the Sun” was very much in the vein of the Beach Boys sound, focusing intently on the sunshine of the title, and of course, it had that unforgettable dreamy guitar riff at the beginning of each verse. And yeah, I know the song has been critically derided over the years and has been called out as one of the worst songs ever recorded, but it appealed to my sappy teenaged self, one of the songs that I adopted from my parents’ car playlists before I struck out on my own musically.
Fast forward twenty five years or so and I was just getting into the latest Luke Haines project, Black Box Recorder, at the recommendation of my good friend Tim, who also got me into The Auteurs. They recorded a cover of “Seasons in the sun” based on the Terry Jacks version*** during the sessions for their debut, 1998’s “England made me”. Theirs is a heavy and heavenly bass line, juxtaposed against Sara Nixey’s soft as cotton touch on vocals and the odd synth flourish, and yeah, they included a nod to that instantly recognizable riff. By the end, Luke Haines has joined the mix, singing backup and adding raunchy guitars and feedback, ripping the band aid off of some of the innocence of the Terry Jacks version, bringing the angst and darkness back, as if channeling Jacques Brel.
As much as the original appeals, as does what Brel does with his words, and as much as I loved the Terry Jacks version as a teen, I’m going to go with Black Box Recorder here.
Cover:
Original (in French):
Terry Jacks version:
*Part of his translation project to bring Brel’s work to the English speaking masses.
**They recorded a version in 1971 but weren’t happy with it. The recording eventually saw the light on one of the many box sets that were released many years later.
***They adjusted the first person narrative lyrics to a female voice to account for the fact that Sara was singing.
For the rest of the 100 best covers list, click here.
(Vinyl Love is a series of posts that quite simply lists, describes, and displays the pieces in my growing vinyl collection. You can bet that each record was given a spin during the drafting of each corresponding post.)
Artist: The Clientele Album Title: Suburban light Year released: 2000 Year reissued: 2014 Details: 180 gram
The skinny: Okay. So I don’t usually make a habit out of posting two of these ‘Vinyl love’ pieces in a row. However, my most recent vinyl purchase, that of the long awaited reissue of “The violet hour“, and of course its requisite go-round on the turntable, immediately put me in the mood to listen to more of The Clientele. And while posting the piece a few days ago, I came to the realization that I hadn’t beforehand published a single ‘Vinyl love’ post on any of their long players, of which I now have all of them on my shelf. So I’ve decided to remedy (and perhaps overcompensate for) this oversight and run the gamut over the next few months, starting back at the beginning, with their debut, 2000’s “The suburban light”. The English dream pop trio cobbled together demos and rough (sometimes home) recordings for this debut, preferring their sound to the versions that resulting from time spent in proper studios and because of this, the album was oft mislabeled a compilation* rather than an album proper. My copy of the record was the one Merge reissued in 2014 with the original artwork and tracklist, as part of its 25th anniversary series, pressed to 180 gram vinyl using the original analogue tapes. So beautiful.
Standout track: “Rain”
*Indeed when I posted about “Rain” (the song above) for its entry on my Best tunes of 2000 list, I referred to the album as such.
My (life in) music lists 